


The Champion

by FeyduBois



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Galra Empire, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prison, Shiro Big Bang 2017
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-02 21:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12735147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeyduBois/pseuds/FeyduBois
Summary: The long drawn-out story of Shiro’s first forgotten time in Galra captivity, from his abduction, his first and second runs in the ring, leading right up to the moment of his haphazard escape.





	1. Snagged, Bagged, and Tagged

**Author's Note:**

> http://voltronbigbang.tumblr.com/
> 
> Warnings for violence, gore, and attempted sexual assault.

**Chapter I: Snagged Bagged and Tagged**

_Sir you make no mistake I know just what it takes_  
_to pull a man's soul back from heaven's gate._  
_I’ve been wanderin’ in the dark just as long as sin,_  
_but they say it’s never too late to start again._  
_Oh when, oh when will the spirit call for my soul to descend?_  
_Oh when, oh when will the keys to the kingdom be mine again?_  
_\--Blitzen Trapper “Black River Killer”_

***

Of all the things Shiro had expected to experience in his life alien abduction rated about as likely as coming to face to face with an extinct bengal tiger; some bacteria in ice he might encounter, certainly, perhaps even tardigrades, but actual alien lifeforms that were bipedal and breathed oxygen, and occupied actual spaceships? It was something out of science fiction, or perhaps one of those conspiracy theory programs Katie loved so much, certainly not something he’d expected to experience first hand.

Shiro woke up on a hard metal table, absolutely naked, and strapped down. He strained against the bindings but found them tight on his arms, legs, and around his waist, keeping him held tightly against the hard surface which seemed to draw the warmth right from his skin. The room was not freezing, but it was definitely cooler than room temperature and not comfortable. The high ceilings and the height of the table suggested to him that these aliens were slightly taller than humans, but overall it was not too alien, which was perhaps the most disarming, frightening thing about this whole ordeal.

There were cabinets (minus handles) around the room, a medical tray with various tools, and a couple of machines nearby. He was hooked up to several nodes, wires running out of his view, which apparently displayed his vitals on a projection-screen slightly more advanced than Earth, but not too far off. He realized he could recognize a blood pressure reading, and something that was his pulse, and perhaps even his temperature, because the record of the past several minutes showed that it had risen since he had awoken, though for all he knew it could be a brain activity monitor. The colour scheme was dark, nearly black, all silver chromian gun-metal greys, and glowing fuchsia and purple lights; go figure, these aliens went for an evil My Little Pony colour scheme.

A humanoid being entered, dressed in a mask and plastic goggles which concealed its eyes, protecting it from, presumably, any Earth pathogens that Shiro might be carrying. Their black rubbery gloves, with a thumb and four fingers, held him down as they examined him carefully through the goggles, consulting the monitor. Another similarly dressed being followed, slightly smaller and clearly under the direction of the first, and they consulted other displays, likely the previous records of Shiro’s capture, and conveyed their findings in a language that was made up of growls and vocalizations, but was not nearly as alien as Shiro had thought it would be, space considered. It sounded more like a foreign Earth language than an alien language, not much different than Japanese to Italian, or Ojibwe to French.

“What are you doing to me?” Shiro asked, trying to enunciate clearly, “Where are my crewmates… the humans I came in with, where are they?”

The aliens regarded him with tilted heads and vague curiosity before the larger instructed the smaller to do something and a syringe was injected into what Shiro presumed was his intravenous line. He felt it almost immediately; dizziness overcame him, and his head hit the table even as his eyes stared open, trying weakly to focus on the aliens above him, until they, too, faded away.

***

Shiro woke up without the medical bindings. He was not on a table but on a pallet on the floor that was bed-like; it was just slightly softer than those things the Garrison tried to pass off as mattresses, and there was a blanket, although no pillow. He sat up and took in his surroundings. The room was small, perhaps eight by four feet, with metal walls, kept slightly warmer than his previous surroundings, and the front was not a wall but bars. Shiro sat up, shaking weakly, and stood. He walked towards the outer wall and peered out. Walls upon walls of similar cells met his view. They ran up and down a corridor but also vertically, without a walkway or even a step beyond the door to each cell. Small platforms stood outside of one or two empty cells, and one could be seen sliding across, and then up, speeding towards a cell. The platform was barely three by three feet and had no railing, yet was probably the way in which the cells were entered and exited. A slight slip could have a person falling further than Shiro could easily see, at least from his cell, and he felt himself sweating at the notion. Each cell contained a being, some more than one, and he could hear them speaking, singing, and crying in dozens of alien languages, none of which he understood. Standing made him dizzy. He fell to his knees, trying to recall just how he arrived where he was. His head ached.

An automatic hatch door opened at the back of cell and a tray with a simple meal was presented. When he toyed with the other controls, those rusty, stained knobs, he found what he could only assume to be a sink and a toilet, all the things one would expect a prison cell to contain, although there was no shower, and it was neither private nor comfortable. Shiro knew, without having to ask, that he was in a prison cell. The cries around him, although not English, nor Japanese, nor any other language he knew, were filled with such despair, a mixture of boredom, pain, loneliness, and anger, that he had no doubt as to where he was.

“Sam?” he cried out, “Matt?”

“Shi-roh?” a distant voice he thought, vaguely, he could recognize called out.

“Matt?” he asked.

“Jus- wait. I’ll cont-ct you.”

The voice was distant, bouncing around, unsettling when with the combined groans and cries of the walls upon walls of cells. The next day - Shiro supposed it was a day, the lights had dimmed at some point and everyone had settled down for a sleep cycle which he calculated to be around six hours long (though it could have been shorter, he was very tired) he was awoken with his neighbour just behind him pounding on the wall.

“Wha?” Shiro asked.

The alien grunted something unintelligible and held out a folded piece of what looked like paper to him through the narrow combined bars at the edge of their cells. Shiro took the paper, but the hand was still held out, making a grabbing motion. Without thinking Shiro dropped the flat bread-like piece of food off his breakfast tray, leaving the goopy blue-green porridge. The alien hand took it with a happy grunt and he had the precious message.

_‘Shiro-’_

The familiar, messy chicken-scratch handwriting was reassuring, and Shiro was glad for once of Matt’s insistence on tight, tiny writing:

_‘I hope you didn’t give up your entire food bar for this message. You’ll get one for breakfast and a half at dinner, but that’s all. The goo is good, but it’s mainly liquid and kinda like gruel, the bars are where all the protein and vitamins are, so if you’re using them for trade then break them into halves, or better quarters._  
_I guess you’ve figured out we’re in prison. I’m four cells down the line from you, and one row up, so it’s hard to hear you but I’ve heard from the others that you’re there. The language is hard, it’s called Galran. The Galra are the aliens holding us captive, it’s just that their language is the most prevalent over the galaxy, sort of an empire thing, so you’ll need to learn it to communicate here. Who am I kidding? You’ll need it to survive here._  
_I’m scared Shiro, I’m sure you are too, but you’re probably dealing with it better than I am. We got abducted. It’s exciting that there are aliens but I ever thought we’d meet them like this. I never thought I’d be abducted and probed and locked in a cell by aliens. Aliens Shiro, goddamned aliens!!! And probes! I had always been afraid that anal probes would be a thing, but after the colonoscopy before the mission this actually wasn’t too bad…?! It was the thing they did with my eyes, and the nasal scope, that hurt more. I hope they had you sleeping through those, I woke up halfway through the eye thing, terrifying!_  
_I don’t know where dad is._  
_Please write me back, my neighbours should know what we’re doing, there’s a whole underground thing about passing messages, and you should start learning Galran too._  
_-Matt’_

Shiro didn’t know how to reply to Matt. He didn’t know what to do so he tries gesturing to the cell neighbour who delivered his message, making the action of writing on the paper. The alien had four arms and two eyes but lacked ears so Shiro felt like his voice was falling on deaf ears - even though the alien wouldn’t understand his language anyway. Eventually the message seemed to sink in and the alien, perhaps glad of the entire food bar that morning, picked up a black stick and cracked it in half, handing half of it back to Shiro. Shiro didn’t know what to write on until he spotted the sheets of paper next to the toilet, clearly meant for hygiene, but also the material that Matt’s note had been written on. He scribbled back furiously.

_‘Matt -_  
_It will be okay. We will find a way out. I’m sure your father is just fine._  
_I’m glad you’ve started to learn about our imprisoners, I will start to learn their language and customs right away._  
_Do not lose hope. Hang on Matt, we will find your dad and a way out of here and get back to Earth._  
_\- Shiro.’_

At dinner Shiro sent the message out with a half of his dinner bar. He was starving that entire day, but was rewarded with another message from Matt in the morning. This went on for a long time. Gradually the noise around Shiro began to make sense. The words changed from animalistic mumbles and foreign sounds to actual words, mainly of despair, and eventually he could communicate somewhat in Galran. It was, as it is in any case like this, an insult to have to learn the language of your captor, but you do it anyway, you do it so you can get by, you do it so you can infiltrate; however, never do you forget your mother tongue, or that of your home world at least. Shiro’s mother tongue was technically Japanese, but he could only keep up English, with the occasional Japanese word written in romanji with Matt, thanks to their long friendship and Matt’s otaku tendencies, so that was what he did. That was all Shiro had in the face of Galran language and culture, prison culture, so he held it dearly for those first few months.

‘Hang on Matt,’ he wrote, thinking _gunbarle_!, keep fighting! Keep fighting! This was a slow and strange imprisonment, but they fought as they could by staying alive, by communicating with each other, and soon enough they found themselves together again.

***

Eventually Shiro was deemed fit for work and at times a whistle would call and a platform would form outside of his cell creating a walkway, narrow and railless, and he would have to walk to the workshop. Not long after Matt met him at the entrance to the workshop and they greeted each other with a tight embrace, tears flowing freely.

The Galra guard probed them with a stick that they both knew by now could electrocute, mumbling in his snarling tongue, “C’mon, move along…”

Not the first day, but a couple of days later, Shiro and Matt managed to find positions side-by-side on the assembly line conveyor belt where they affixed what could only be parts of spaceships together manually. It was work that probably could have been done by machine, but was also awkward and, even with a civilization as advanced as this one, was best done by hand so as to assure a tight, seamless line that would not break over time. They did their work well, not so much out of pride but so that they would not be yelled at and forced to repeat it over again. Good work, they found, was rewarded with extra ration bars and further freedoms, including access to the lounge area at dinner time, as much gruel and ‘tea’ as they could want, access to the showers, and eventually the choice of a shared double cell with a private bathroom which they took eagerly. Matt took the top bunk, above Shiro. They were too exhausted usually by the end of the evening to do much more than talk, keeping their English and Earth culture alive between the two of them, but it was enough.

“I never quite understood why they made the Hobbit into a trilogy,” Matt said from his top bunk, “I mean, The Lord of the Rings books were a trilogy, but The Hobbit was a standalone, it did _not_ need three movies. They added so much filler.”

“True,” Shiro agreed, “It was entertaining filler though, you’ll have to admit.”

“I guess.”

“Maybe it was because the Lord of the Rings trilogy had worked so well in the box office?” Shiro suggested, “The year in between each just hyped it up more.”

“Ugh,” Matt groaned, “Did you know it wasn’t even meant to be a trilogy? The Lord of the Rings was a whole book, divided into six books and an appendices, but when Tolkien pitched all thousand-plus pages to a publisher they just laughed at him and divided it into a trilogy.”

“Huh,” said Shiro, “Well, it makes sense, all three would be a huge volume, a trilogy just makes sense for marketing.”

“I guess,” Matt said grumpily, “I think it would have been better as six films… or I guess as a six season television series, each covering one of the ‘books’? It might have been tricky to film since books three and five focus on Frodo and Sam, while four and six cover what the rest of the fellowship is doing then… I would have watched it though.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Shiro, thinking to himself, “Of course you would though, geek.”

“Haven’t you read them?”

“No, I just watched the movies. I read the Hobbit in school I think?”

“Oh my God,” Matt groaned. A flat pillow came from the upper bunk to smack Shiro in the face, “As soon a we get back to Earth I know what I’m forcing you to read! You've gotta read the entire trilogy, and the Hobbit, and then the Silmarillion.”

“The what?”

Matt groaned again.

They were silent for awhile and then, sadly, Matt said, “We’ll get back to Earth, won’t we Shiro? You’ll read the Silmarillion. I’ll get to see Katie and mom, and we’ll find dad, won’t we?”

“Of course,” Shiro said, “We’ll find the Commander and go back to Earth.”

Shiro could hear Matt’s breathing even out and a mumbled, “G’night Shiro,” but he could not quite believe what he said was true. The whole situation was improbable... impossible really. They were in an alien prison, a work camp, and although not as mistreated as they could be, they were not well treated. They were stuck and the days were interminably long.

***

A couple dozen days later, in the evening, Shiro worried over Matt’s breathing. His goddamned breathing.

They had both caught a bug not unlike influenza, with headaches, congestion, fatigue, coughing, and a low-grade fever, but while Shiro bounced back quickly it seemed to cling to Matt for longer. He had been sent home from the assembly line early that day and now he lay on the lower bunk - Shiro did not want him climbing the ladder - labouring for air.

Shiro had known that Matt suffered from asthma, colds tended to settle in his chest, but it had always before been something that just happened, not a big deal. It was something to be watched, but also a thing that could simply be treated with his blue puffer. One puff, wait thirty seconds, then again, and within minutes his tight breathing would ease up. Here, in space prison, it was different though. Tonight they didn’t have the medicine, and so Matt’s breathing continued to be difficult. He would breathe in as deeply as he could, desperately, and then on the exhale it was like pushing air through a straw, the sound like a windstorm coming down a chimney. Shiro could hear the mucus built up in his lungs, rattling about, and the coughs, which were harsh for both of them during the illness, turned into a sharp, disturbing, barking for Matt now.

Eventually Shiro came down to the lower bunk and helped him sit up. The fits were not constant, but often enough to keep them awake, and soon it got to the point where their cell neighbours pounded on the wall and called “Quiet!” in Galran at a couple of points. Shiro ignored them, there wasn’t anything much he could do except hold Matt close through the fits and keep him propped up since that seemed to help.

The next morning Matt was burning up and exhausted in Shiro’s arms. This looked like bronchitis at the least, perhaps pneumonia, and Shiro wanted to stay with him, but he knew they would not get rations if he did not go to work, and Matt needed food to recover; so Shiro went, and rushed back quickly afterwards, with a cup of warm orange liquid from the lounge, as well as all the gooey gruel they could eat. Shiro tried to get him to nibble on some protein bar but Matt had trouble swallowing it until Shiro crumbled half the bar into Matt’s gruel. Matt ate the rest, unhappily, but knowing that he needed the energy to get through the night and the next day.

“Thanks,” Matt murmured, forcing himself to eat the last few cementy mouthfuls of gruel. It did not taste good, but there was energy in it, and much needed liquid. “Sorry m’weak,” he wheezed, “My lungs are shit. Immune system is also kinda crappy.”

“Shhh, it’s fine,” Shiro reassured him, “It didn’t keep you from joining the Kerberos mission.”

“I guess it helped that my dad was the commander,” Matt grinned bitterly, “Usually asthma is a bit of a road-block in Galaxy Garrison careers, but I was technically hired as a scientist, top astro-biologist and all that, and my meds manage it pretty good.” He paused, “Well, they did.”

“What works besides medicine?” Shiro asked, “I mean, I know there are triggers, right?”

“Smoke,” said Matt, “Specifically cigarette smoke, though we’re unlikely to encounter that in space.”

“Right,” Shiro said, thinking to himself; other smoke though could be a problem he would have to be aware of, “What else?”

“Uh… sudden changes in atmosphere, like moving from a warm environment to a cold, wet one, having to exercise without a warm-up, especially in the winter. Respiratory illness, obviously. Also cats, but we should be fine on that front.”

“Have you seen the Galra?” Shiro asked.

“Right,” Matt chuckled, and then broke into a rough coughing fit. Shiro rubbed his back from behind, feeling a worrying heat through the thin prisoner’s robes.

“I can’t believe we’ve been abducted by giant chinchillas.” Matt said once he’d stopped hacking.

“I think they’re more cat-like. Bat-like?”

“Naw, chinchillas,” Matt said firmly, “Have you seen their tails?”

“Hmm,” Shiro contemplated, “I see your point. I’ll have to pay more attention tomorrow.”

“Let me come to work tomorrow,” Matt said.

“Only if this fever is gone,” Shiro said.

Matt groaned. “But we need food. And GAC.”

“At this rate we’ll never be able to earn our freedom in our lifetimes,” Shiro said, with a frown. He had asked once how much of the currency they would need to buy freedom, and how much they managed to bank per a day of work. The actual amount they took in wasn’t bad, but the amount taken for their lodging, food, water, and even the luxury of breathable air, was high enough that the actual GAC they banked was not much. It would take them twenty years of work at least, with using the minimal ‘luxuries’ to survive, before they could even make the halfway mark and put in a form for freedom, nevermind actually make a break for it - through the official channels at least.

Certainly they worked, but they were not employees so much as prisoners, and they had no illusions as to otherwise. Illness was dangerous, it was weakness, they had seen others culled after too many days of missed work, but with another to support him Matt could hold out for a bit longer, and that was what he needed to catch his breath.

“Guess we’ll have to find a way to earn more,” Matt said, wearily.

“Yeah,” Shiro agreed, “There must be something that pays better. We’re just assembly line crew right now, and I know you’re more skilled than that, Mister Astro-bio-engineer.”

“So’re you,” Matt mumbled sleepily, “ Mister Star Pilot”

Shiro just laughed softly, as if he didn’t quite believe the title. It was true, but depressingly so right now. They were in space, abducted by aliens, thanks to his piloting skills, “Sure.”

Of course, besides being too weak or sickly, being too aggressive could be dangerous too. It was possible to be taken for the gladiator ring, to die in glorious combat. Contestants from all planets were taken in a sort of bloody WWE style combat ring. This was real blood though. They had sponsors, for sure, colourful personas and back stories, and all they could desire while they were fighting, but the fights were brutal. After watching the entertainment provided in the mess hall they had figured that the stars of the ring made more GAC, but did not survive long, and it probably wasn’t worth it to try to join.

But there weren’t many options. Besides the ring and the line they worked at there were the mines, which paid slightly better but had significantly worse conditions, the air bad even for prisoners without respiratory problems and even less mercy for the weak, and the cribs where the prettiest prisoners by Galran standards were taken for another kind of work.

***

Matt recovered, but slowly. He was back at work days later, upon protest from Shiro, but he worked through the day and slept deeply through the night, too exhausted to cough out the burning in his lungs. Shiro would have preferred if he’d taken more time off, but they did really need the GAC.

“I found dad,” Matt announced at the end of the work day, coughing lightly into his fist at the mess table.

“What?”

“My contact said he only just got into the prison system, not sure where he was before, but he’s being sent to the light work camp.”

“Good,” Shiro nodded, sipping his water. The light work camp was easier work than what they did, however it paid enough to just survive, and there was no chance of ever making enough GAC to buy freedom. It was where they primarily sent children and the elderly, although Sam Holt was a far cry from feeble, perhaps the experiments on him had left him frail.

“I’ll try to get more information on him… maybe we can bring him up here?”

“Maybe,” Shiro nodded.

Matt was silent for a few seconds.

“We’ll find him,” Shiro reassured him.

Matt frowned into his dinner, “I know.”

***

“Shiro,” Matt whispered under his breath, his voice verging upon afraid. They were in the communal showers, washing away a day’s worth of grime and sweat. The water pressure was lousy, and the water lukewarm, but it worked.

Shiro looked to Matt in the stall next to him and immediately felt it. A Galra guard was watching Matt hungrily, his eyes filled with poorly concealed lust. Matt turned to face Shiro, his eyes desperately asking for help but there wasn’t much Shiro could do about the guard just staring from the entrance to the room. Hell, there wasn’t much he could do about the guard doing anything for that matter.

The alien in the stall on Matt’s other side, near the guard, finished their shower and left and the guard came into the empty stall to continue watching Matt.

“What planet are you from?” he asked.

Matt glared nervously, “Earth.”

“Never heard of it. Sounds fake.”

Matt shrugged, “It’s small and far away.”

“Tell me Earthian, on your planet are you considered pretty?”

Shiro’s mouth went dry. He stared challengingly at the guard.

“What?” Matt asked.

“On your planet are you considered attractive?”

“Not particularly,” Matt said.

“This one seems to be protective of you,” the guard gestured to Shiro, baring his teeth, “Is he your mate.”

“He’s my brother,” Matt bristled, interrupting the guard before Shiro could say anything else. Matt used the word that implied ‘blood brother’ rather than the word translating to ‘litter mate’, meaning that they might have one parent the same, or be cousins, rather than immediate sibling, perhaps even a non-related friend who he had grown up with and was very near to and regarded as a brother.

“I see,” the guard said, frowning. He seemed to turn away for a moment, but then looked over his shoulder and suggested to Shiro, “Will you give him to me for a night?”

“What? No.”

Matt was sweating, turning his head rapidly from one to the other, knowing that any second things might escalate to violence.

“Are you saying no to me, Earthian?” The guard snarled, coming into the shower stall next to Matt.

“I am saying no,” interrupted Shiro, “He is not yours to take.

Mat inhaled sharpy; he was naked and wet, physically as vulnerable as could be, though he held strong.

“Your no means shit here,” The guard spat, grabbing his arm, “I take what I want.”

“You can’t!” Shiro said, stepping forward. He knew the law; as Matt’s blood-brother he could claim against others as Matt’s protector.

Matt struggled and slipped away from the guard’s grip, but the Galra repositioned and held tighter, his claws digging into Matt’s arm.

Without thinking Shiro lashed out, striking the guard with his fist straight to his nose. A burst of blood shot out immediately and the guard, not expecting the punch, staggered back. He touched a clawed finger delicately to his nose and regarded the blood on his finger with narrowed, amber eyes.

“How dare you?!” he hissed, followed by several exclamations in Galran, and then he brought his fist down.

The beating was brutal, rage-fuelled, and painful, but fortunately short. The guard was interrupted by another senior officer who stopped him and sent him out to cool down.

He glared at the prisoners, “And as for you scum, get back to your room. Your punishment will follow tomorrow.”

***

Not long before they would start work Shiro realized that Matt was huddled against him, tearful. He would say nothing of what almost happened when they were awake.

Tomorrow followed. No platform came at the usual time to rush them off to work, instead they sat and waited a little longer, another half hour, an hour, maybe more, anxious about what would follow. A platform came for them and they stepped on and were rushed to a an empty cell. A guard came and took their prisoner numbers and their other information, such as their relationship to one another, ages, and their planet of origin. She nodded boredly, “Alright. You’re all in order.”

“Wait,” Shiro said before she left, “Can you tell us where we are going?”

She smiled benignly, “Well, apparently you like to fight, and you can throw a punch, so the two of you are going to the arena. You might just be fodder for the crowd, but then maybe you’ll make it in the ring.” She shrugged, dead-eyed, “Not my problem.”

***


	2. In Glorious Combat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late, there are other commitments taking huge bites out of my time.
> 
> This chapter is the highest rating for gore, drug use/abuse, and sexual things (no smut though sorry).

Chapter II: In Glorious Combat

Dear fellow traveler, under the moon  
I think I'm growing weary and I'm hoping you'll come soon  
And if I see you, in clean new clothes  
I hope you hold the mirror up to show me what I chose  
-Sea Wolf “Dear Fellow Traveller”

***

They were afraid, all of them were very, very afraid, nervously pacing in the tiny cell. Besides Matt and Shiro a half dozen other aliens were with them, chatting in their own languages or the Pidgin Galran typical used by the prisoners. 

They spoke anxiously of their chances for survival in the ring, of the odds an unbloodied stood. An unbloodied was a prisoner who was not taken for the ring at their initial intake but instead were prisoners who had lived in the Galran prison system for anywhere from days to years before being brought here. Typically the unbloodied were malnourished, exhausted, sickly, and their spirits broken; they were fighting for survival. In other words, they were fodder for the better equipped and better cared for fighters in the ring. Unbloodied were used for warm-up rounds, and only once each fighter had bloodied their weapon (or body) with one of them could they could start the combat in earnest.

They watched as the first taken from them was shredded in rows of sharklike teeth, the sandy ground soaking up their blood. Attendants came after and swept away the sloppy gore of the corpse, although the sand remained stained with a large puddle of pinkish-red.

“I’m not going to make it,” Matt turned away from the horrific display within the ring as the first contender exited and the second came on stage. His hazel eyes were huge with fear, the black pupils dilated to the size of dimes, “I’ll never see my family again!”

Shiro knew what Matt needed to hear: “You can do this.”

Lights blazed and they squinted into it as a group. Matt gasped and Shiro knew then that Matt would never make it, that he would have to watch his best friend die before him. He knew then what he had to do.

When the guard (inevitably) pointed his cruel hooked blade at Matt to summon him Shiro yelled and reached forward, tossing Matt behind him, grabbing the drone’s strange orcish weapon, and screamed, “This is my fight!” into the guard’s face, splattering it with his saliva.

Shiro struck at Matt’s leg, and then leapt onto his body, crouching over him carefully, “I want blood!”

Matt was terrified. Shiro’s face was centimeters from his, his eyes burning with an inner flame that Matt did not know existed. Shiro softened for just a second, letting the facade fall away as he whispered intently, “Find your father and take care of yourselves.”

Shiro was dragged away. Matt held his bleeding leg, staring after his wake in bewilderment. Shiro had hurt him… Shiro had hurt him! But it was so that they would take him instead... Matt went to lift himself up, to protest, but he could not even put weight on his deeply slashed thigh, and instead he stared out after Shiro, straining to see what would happen next.

***

Fight!

That was what Shiro first understood when he faced the first monster. He separated from himself mentally, as he understood was needed to do; he analyzed its responses and came to know its weaknesses, and then he exploited them. It only had three strikes, and then it was open, vulnerable. He made his move then.

Shiro struck; bodily fluids flew.

Shiro defeated the orb monster, and then he was allowed to rest.

There was good food and drink in his room, and rest, for a full night and then a day, a luxurious amount of time really, in which he thought of Matt, of his actions the night before. Matt would never have survived in the ring like he had. Matt didn’t have that instinct, the warrior’s instinct (but it wasn’t his fault). It wasn’t a thing that Shiro was proud of, it was simple primeval survival, and Shiro had it, he knew that he did (but it wasn’t his fault). 

So he used it. It was not pride that filled him, but a sense of responsibility; he had grit, he could survive where others couldn’t, so it was his responsibility to live, right?

Primeval survival instincts - pure grit - got Shiro through these times.

He would fight, fight more, fight until he was exhausted, and then sleep, eat, drink, sometimes fuck, sleep, eat, fight again, drink, sleep and then fight some more. This cycle went on and on.

***

It was after a fight and a short nap that he again remembered Matt.

“What’s your name?” Shiro asked, lifting himself out of the nest-like Galra style bed, his body naked and a few small cuts oozing blood slowly still. His eyes adapted to the dim light gradually as he came to full awareness of his sore, stiff body, and of the space… of his space. Shiro’s new room was plain but comfortable, at the higher end of the standard Galran issue, with extra items to provide for the comfort of a fighter, such as a private shower, a double bed, extra food and drink after fights, and training equipment… also there was the rest of the fighter’s ring that he had access to where his credits could be spent on a bewildering array of items and services, the prices not even that inflated.

“I am Huvera,” the female said, stepping back from the table she was setting. She was a pretty alien, traditionally feminine in the ways Shiro had not often seen in his captivity so far. She was slender and too young, with large tufted ears and glowing amber eyes which she never raised higher than his waist as if she were too modest (or perhaps trained to never look a man in the eye). So far he had got as servants the jaded women, the tiresome slaves of the Galra empire. This one, however, was poised, shy; she was new to this.

Shiro has tried to get messages out, but that didn’t really happen here. The arena slave ring was its own self-contained community, and the fighters were at the top, with basically the rest of the ring set-up to support their needs. There were services - food, drink, medicine, women (or boys), and weapons (or armour and upgrades), but communication with the outside was kept tight, even when their other needs are easy to get with enough of the right currency (GAC and reputation). Sponsorships were the best way to get regular income, and Shiro presently had a contract with two food sponsors and one clothing provider, so he was well cared for, even if he had more of a single brand of Galran snack food than he could ever need or want. 

Huvera had set out a nice dinner for Shiro, and sat down herself at his gesture to enjoy her own meal. A meal guest was extra usually in a restaurant, at least the cost of their meal and then more for the service, and the tip was usually all that the guest themself got out of the deal, besides a nice meal. Huvera understood Shiro’s gesture however, and she was poised enough that Shiro could only assume she was not from the lower slave rings, but she did not strike him as a courtesan either.

“Who do you work for?” Shiro asked after a few bites, in an attempt to be conversational, but also genuinely curious.

“Oh! I am not with your sponsors, I am with a, uh, firm, outside of the arena.”

“You aren’t from the ring?” Shiro asked, brows shooting up under his hairline.

“Nope,” she shook her head, “I’m not from a very wealthy family, but, we are not destitute, and well, a mate from the arena isn’t a bad choice for a half-breed like myself.” Huvera shrugged, showing herself openly, honestly. She flipped her hair so that her neck was bare in a gesture that among the Galra was subordinate but also highly erotic, “You don’t have any regulars, so perhaps you are looking for something… more than a warm body?” Her amber eyes were full of uncertainty tinted with hope. ‘Mate’ meant marriage for the Galra, Shiro reminded himself.

‘Half-breed? Oh, of course!’ he thought. Shiro looked her over; Huvera was Galran, but not entirely, although enough that he didn’t realize it until she said anything. Half-Galrans were sometimes treated worse than those with no Galran blood at all, so a marriage, even one strictly in name, to a champion of the arena was a wise choice as she would - provided there was proof they had consummated, preferably offspring - inherit his earnings in the (all too likely) event of his demise. 

The Galra were not as patrilineal as most Earth cultures that Shiro knew, it was probably Huvera’s mother who had set up their meeting as generally Galran women managed family finances and marriages, but there were distinct gender roles still.

Shiro and Huvera ate in silence for awhile.

“I’m not really looking for a companion right now,” Shiro admitted eventually.

“Oh! Of course…” Huvera stammered, and then met his gaze, nervously, “I have a brother actually, if that is your preference?”

Shiro smiled faintly at her and shook his head. “No. My apologies,” he said graciously, “I honestly am not looking at this time, but I thank you for your interest.”

“I see,” she looked down, disappointed.

“Please, have some dessert!” Shiro said, standing and pouring out a healthy serving of the thick Galra pudding into her dish, and then serving himself a large portion once she accepted it.

They sat down to enjoy the sweet creamy dessert in awkward silence. Eventually Shiro said, “Listen, I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment, but I’m sure there are others in the arena for you. I was wondering though… I can offer you a generous tip if you do one thing for me?”

Huvera’s eyes widened and she let out a soft but aggressive hiss.

Shiro shook his head, “Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s not… it’s nothing like that.” He exhaled slowly. “You can say no. I just need a message delivered. You can go home after dinner, your, uhm, virtue will remain intact.”

“You mean virginity?” she raised an eyebrow.

“Whatever you want to call it.” Shiro shrugged away formalities and cultural split ends, “I was separated from my friends when I was brought to the ring, and there is one I want to get in touch with again. There were only myself, him, and his father who were taken by the Galra that I am aware of, and he was the only one I met in captivity.”

The only one I knew survived, Shiro didn’t say, but Huvera seemed to understand the implication.

“You want me to see if I can get a message to your friend?”

“If possible… I know his prisoner number.”

“That… well,” she considered, “It would normally be pretty hard to find just one person in the Empire, but with a number I can give it a try.”

“Thank you so much,” Shiro’s face broke into a wide grin and he went to shake her hand.

She raised delicate fingertips in protest, not understanding the Terran gesture, “Not so fast Champion, we haven’t discussed a price yet… or how I am to get back in contact with you if I do find this friend of yours.”

“Right,” Shiro said, going immediately to his desk and picking up a paper and pencil. He took these back to the dinner table and started:

“Dear Matt--”  
If you get this contact me. I am alive. I am in the arena.  
They call me The Champion.  
\--Shiro

***

Huvera’s message went out, but whether or not Matt received it or not Shiro never found out, he never got a reply at least.

Days turned to months, months turned to who knows how long; Shiro lost track of time as it was, he began to record time in fights. His reputation grew, he had wealth but he did not spend much; for a short while he drank the mild, sweet Galran liquor, but he found his senses dulled in the ring and he’d heard too many horror stories about fighters losing their senses to it and falling in the ring so he put a stop to it fairly quickly. Instead he tried to remember Earth and keep his languages intact; he told himself stories, repeated songs from memory, and dined more often alone than not in the dozens of medium-range restaurants in the ring, listening to the conversations around him, keeping track of the goings-on, both the gossip and the news, awaiting a reply from Huvera or a contact from Matt.

Nothing came.

It was nothing he found that stopped Shiro, but something that found him.

***

Shiro was struck across the face with a lashing tail. It came out of nowhere, he had hardly realized that his opponent had a tail in the first place. He fell back to the ground, dust flying around him. His nose was almost certainly broken and he felt his sinuses exposed to the sandy, filthy, air of the arena. To be honest, there were a million places Shiro could think of that were more sanitary than the arena floor, including the Garrison locker rooms. It bled and red filled his vision. He was taken aside for a moment to the sideline where his sponsor gave him a bottle of bright pink liquid which was their other product, an energy drink of sorts. He drank it and suddenly felt like he’d just had a shot of adrenaline, a Matt Holt special (double vodka in a Rockstar with plenty of lime), and a couple of tokes of marijuana. He was calm, content, and his body was ready to go. It moved as if on its own accord, away from the sidelines and back into the ring. Immediately he was back upon his opponent, tearing them apart meticulously with his short hooked sword. He dodged their blows and then, stepping just past them, dragged the blade across their achilles tendon, collapsing them to their dinosaur like belly with an inhuman shriek. Shiro lifted his blade victoriously even as the blood poured down his face. Clearly they had never heard of Paris in the Galran Empire, or Achilles and his tendon for that matter.

He allowed the ring medic that had been sent to care for him along with his sponsor’s rep who explained that the drink he’d had was Brawno, their latest line of quintessence-infused energy beverage, and he accepted more of it, diluted with water, to help with the pain as the ring medic reset his nose. Following that he signed off on the forms to go on the product regularly as a representative and get as much as he desired on fight days. By the time Shiro read the small print on the retail packaging (not his usual unlabelled bottle direct from the supplier) he was alreading succumbing to the dependence it warned against, as well as possibly the short-term memory loss high dosages could create.

By then he didn’t care as much as he should have. The labels didn’t warn of apathy, but the talk in the ring did.

Shiro’s nose healed into an ugly scar but he wore it with pride and fans raged about the day when he collapsed a lizard beast (Mundreean) with a single swing (after his first taste of Brawno as the company liked to mention). The moment was recorded and used for a commercial, cut to the utmost dramatism and projected three dimensionally for all to see. Shiro couldn’t help but preen a little whenever he was recognized publically, even if it was for a commercial, and in the wee hours of the night, between fights, when he was low and guilty and couldn’t sleep, he justified that perhaps Matt or Sam might see the commercial elsewhere in the vast empire and know how to find him from it. 

Of course he had never meant for the fame to go to his head, but hopelessness gave way to ring culture which resulted in consuming more Brawno which led to forgetfulness, which by then was sweet and savoury and was the only way Shiro could sustain himself and not lie down and give into grief.

So he took it, Shiro took his medicine like a good boy, and forgot all about Matt and Kerberos and even Earth. He forgot how to speak English and Japanese, he forgot about sneaking out to lay alone on the roof of the Garrison and dream of space, of his best friends, his high school girlfriend, his brother, his cat, and even his mother’s cooking. He forgot his family, his passion, and all of the things that made him Shiro.

He was a champion of the ring now, he won nearly all of his fights; he was fast, strong, and utterly charming. There were action figures of him. Comics. He did interviews. He had groupies.

Shiro forgot how to be himself until the one fateful day when the thing he had built up, the champion, fell. It was reasonably far into a battle, they’d been exchanging light attacks and parries for going on twenty dobashes now, and the audience was getting restless. Shiro, however, was cocky; he didn’t expect his opponent to bring out the big guns just then, but quite suddenly the sword was a laser and his right arm, extended in attack, became the target. An alarming amount of pain erupted, nearly blinding him and sending him to his knees, but then Shiro breathed through it, drawing upon his reserves of power, and struck back with his left. They fought brutally and intensely. Although Shiro won, he was still bloodied, and he lurched upwards and promptly fainted dramatically in a moment which would be all over the ring news naturally.

***

Shiro woke later in his room, a ring medic hovering over his arm, speaking in hushed tones with his sponsor’s representative. The medic’s face was downcast and grim, but the sponsor seemed undaunted. He nodded grimly and helped Shiro sit up, offering him a cup of watered-down Brawno and reassuring words, “Don’t worry Champion, you will fight again.”

It was too soon when Shiro fought again. His arm had stopped bleeding and was seeming to recover, so far as he could tell under the thick bandages, brace, and casings, but it was too soon, and he could hardly hold his own this round. His warm-up opponent, an unbloodied prisoner with a mask instead of a face, was nearly too much.

They saw his weakness, the bound arm held to his chest with a sling, and targeted him there with their filthy claws. Shiro was soaked in their blood nonetheless, and fell to one knee afterwards and yielded. He was defeated even though he had defeated them, too wounded to fight the next round, but not dead.

Shiro was a champion and he was not dead; he would rise again.

***

“Taken down by an unbloodied,” a whispering voice, distant and muffled, said, the tone so thick with gossip that it was as a judgement being passed.

“What a shame,” said another, louder but strangely hissing, “Do you think he’ll live?” It was his Brawno sponsor Shiro realized.

“I don’t know,” said the other, “But even if he does I doubt we can save the limb.”

“I seeeee,” hissed the sponsor, “Best to let him go?”

“Probably. The fourth ring should be able to take him. Maybe the Lopra system.”

“Lopra? Usually ex-fighters are too aggressive for them.”

“Once he’s off the Brawno he’ll be fine. This one was never actually aggressive to begin with. Plus he’s got some cash to spend, they’re usually good in the fourth. It’s all subsistence there.”

“What’ll you give us for him?”

“You’ve made your dime. Unless you want to pay for an upgrade on his arm?”

The sponsor hissed, “Noooo. No I think not.”

***

Shiro woke up naked with his belongings in a sack at the foot of his bed in a tiny closet-sized room. He eventually managed to get up, dress in the provided Galra standard issue clothes, and wander into the hallway outside of his unlocked room. This he followed, past several similar rooms, into a mess hall. Another prisoner shoved past him as he stood, dazed, taking in the space. “Move it, grub’s almost gone already.”

A large bay window looked out into the vastness of space, although all of the seats near the window were taken. 

“Excuse me, where am I?” Shiro asked a prisoner in the food line up as he joined it mechanically.

She rolled her eyes, “Transport vessel. We’re being sent to Lopra.”

“Lopra?”

“It’s mostly Galra but the natives are still around. We’ll be working for them, cleaning n’ stuff.”

“Oh, I see.” Shiro was nauseous and his head spun.

The other prisoner squinted at him, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Shiro paused, ready to open his mouth. His body ached, his arm a red hot mess beneath the bandages, and all he could think about was Brawno, but he knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was no longer the Champion.

He shook his head, “No, sorry. You must be mistaken.”

She shrugged and turned back to the line.

Beyond the glass the sky shifted from black studded with stars to a clear blue, then to purple in the light of the dying star, as they entered the Lopra system.

***


End file.
